


Queen of Ash

by Anonymous



Series: A Song of Swaps [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dragons, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: What Daenys dreams, she will forge into reality, with fire and blood.Or: an AU where all of Aegon III and Daenaera's children are gender-swapped. The realm doesn't bleed. It burns.





	Queen of Ash

When King Aegon's and Queen Daenaera's firstborn finally comes into the world a decade after their wedding, bells are still rang and toasts made, but celebrations are reserved. They have prayed for a hale and hearty son, a boy wrought in the shape of Daemon and Aegon the Conqueror before him, to put all fears of another Dance to bed at last. Instead their cold, sullen king has granted them a princess.

Daenaera, who should be basking in the birth of her firstborn, instead clasps her hands to avoid strangling the messenger that brings such news.

"I am humbled by the fact the realm regards us as long having reigned in their hearts," she answers sweetly, while Aegon's face flushes in fury. "Though I fear at times they forget my husband is not yet twenty-three, and myself seven years his junior."

It was not her fault poor Viserys became a father thrice over while still a boy himself. He had been her age when his last child was born. Up until last year Daenaera had still been a maid. She'd had no wish to bleed out in child bed like so many child queens before her. Aegon had long suffered unwelcome advances in his regency, ill attempts to seduce him from her side. Only years of whispers and unerring natter had pushed them into trying for a child years earlier than they had intended.

But their daughter is no mistake. When Daenaera beholds the bundle squirming in her Aegon's arms she feels only love, hot and fierce as dragonfire. She is no dragon herself but still ready to burn the world down all the same for that red little face.

Viserys smirks as the beat-red messenger hastens from their room. "Well put, good-sister. My niece was long-awaited, and deserves celebrations this realm has not seen for far too long."

Both fall questioningly silent. Aegon dislikes court on a normal day. It is chaos when one must take guests and planning and bustle into account. Aegon does not look up to either of them. His gaze is only for his daughter. Though his arms had trembled when she was first placed into his arms now he stands steady as oak.

"Daenys," he murmurs. "Princess Daenys Targaryen. She is our heir, until a son is born to us."

Viserys dips his head to hide his smile. "Of course, your grace."

Daenaera blushes in both chagrin and pleasure. "There is no worthier name."

Daenys the Dreamer had been the salvation of dragons and dragonriders alike. Were it not for her they all would have perished in the Doom. Hers is an ancient name, beyond scrutiny, without any ties to dragons green or yellow. It is surely only happy coincidence her name so resembles Daenaera's own.

Still the realm rumbles at a princess that had the gall to not be born with a cock 'twixt her legs. For his daughter's sake Aegon consents through gritted teeth for an egg to be laid into her cradle. She is guarded night and day regardless. There are no shortage of eyes to watch for cracks, and pull their princess away from whatever should hatch. Laena Velaryon is still hidden away on Driftmark, as living proof to the abominations that now come forth instead of dragons.

Not that can little Daenys can remain their heir for long. The nebulous possibility of a marriage between her and Viserys' oldest boy to unite the lines pleases no one. Mere weeks after delivering her firstborn, Daenaera and Aegon try for a prince as soon as the maesters clear her, if only to shut the whispers up.

Instead they are blessed with Baela, ostensibly named in honor of Baelon the Brave. Certainly it is also coincides she shares her name with her aunt, who proudly bears her scars from the day she drove her dragon up to meet Sunfyre. The realm tepidly welcomed Daenys, if only as proof her parents could one day birth a prince. Little Baela is received far less enthusiastically, the smiles reserved and toasts for her health recited out of duty alone.

Even little Daenys spares her sister only a moment's regard. She peeps up into her blanket, pokes her, and then toddles off back to the nursery. She is not yet babbling words, but little Aemon and Aegon have taught her to whack them and her nursemaids with sticks. Taking them away only makes her scream louder for more.

Baela at least was a courteously small babe. Compared to Daenys' birth, she came in no time at all. Her parents start trying for a son even sooner. Their third babe in as many years is not conceived in love or diligence, but rather out of spite toward those starting to hiss their cradle is cursed.

This babe is at restless in the womb as its oldest sister. The maesters praise a prince's vigorous spirit for Daenaera's sleepless nights and cravings for spice. He ladies murmur boys ride high, a thousand small omens speak of a future knights and warrior. Their memories are short, for two years ago they had prophesied the same things of her firstborn, and then a year later for Baela.

At least their prophecies had come partially true in Daenys. She storms after Aegon and Aemon in all their lessons, and must be carried screaming from the yard. The only stories she craves are those of the Conquest and the Dornish Wars, for no nursemaid is willing to risk the king's wrath at such stories being banned inside his walls. Even the younger Aegon steps lightly around his uncle, and speaks of their grandparents in reverent whispers. For his sake Daenaera pretends to be ignorant of it.

Baela is terrified by the babe that bulges Daenaera's middle. Daenys stares at her belly in wide-eyed fascination, prodding it so her little sibling kicks and shoves back.

When he finally comes news of the prince's arrival spreads like wildfire. King's Landing erupts into celebration as it hadn't for their daughters or for any of Viserys' children. The clamoring bells and constant compliments that the gods have truly, finally blessed him do Aegon's mood, strung out from a long labor, no favors.

As their son was conceived in spite, so is he named. Even Daenaera is satisfied, ever so slightly, that even the most enthused lickspittles pause at the name of her son. Surely both sides of the Dance can agree the rogue prince was without peer, dashing and daring as so many people pray this Daemon shall become.

With a son at least to secure their crown, Aegon knows peace as he has not since Daenaera's moon blood first came. For a year Aegon's smiles are not so rare, when Daenys hounds him for stories of their ancestors, when Baela insists on crawling into his bed for fear of the monsters under hers, and when Daemon clings to his hand so that he might toddle after Daenys on unsteady legs.

After a year, court starts nattering for a spare. Aegon needs very little wine for Daenaera to climb into his bed once more. They do not try particularly hard for this babe. Even Daenaera is shocked her moon's blood stops so easily. By the year's end they welcome their second son. Rhaenon is partially named in honor of his aunt, but also entirely for himself. Unlike his elder siblings, he is the first in centuries to bear the name, and not haunted by the ghosts of those came before.

Rhaenon is the last child they try for. Daenaera has no wish to be a broodmare when, at the age of twenty, she has four healthy children already. She is no Alysanne, to bury more than the half the brood she birthed.

Nor does she wish to become like Aegon's own sister, Rhaena, who struggles to grant her husband a single son, just as her Morning is bred time and time again for any eggs she'll lay.

For a time Aegon rests easier upon the Iron Throne, with the weight of obligation lifted from his shoulders. They find each other's bed rarely between ruling and raising children. Their nights together are no longer done out of duty, but blissful in their freedom.

Daenaera does not realize she carries a fifth child until the smell of fish suddenly sickens her one dinner. She is not quite quick enough to avoid splattering her poor husband with their discovery.

Already blessed by two sons and two daughters, neither is especially attached to either sex for their fifth. Daenys and Daemon tear the keep apart in their mischief. Daenys requests only a playmate to keep up with them, while Daemon frets at another little sibling usurping his sister's attention. Baela spends even longer sequestered away in the sept and the library, with Rhaenon as her adoring idol and eager student. They only pray to the Mother for their own mother's well-being.

Only hours after their third son slumbers away in his cradle does Daenaera think to name him Laenor, to for once honor the Velaryon side. She does not expect Aegon to quietly agree with her. If Daemon was named for spite and Rhaenon in penance, then Laenor is christened in somber reflection.

Perhaps, if the Great Council had ruled in favor of Rhaenys Targaryen and her Velaryon heirs all those years ago, their families need have never known how dragons danced.

* * *

The year Daenys turns seven is the year she's going to gain yet another baby brother. Seven is the most important name day any child can have, even more important than the first. Making it to the seventh means the Stranger likes Daenys, so he's not going to take her away as a child. She'll grow to be big and strong, like Visenya and Rhaenyra before her, to live to see all her dreams come true.

When Daenys turns seven she is finally permitted to go to Dragonstone, after wearing her parents down for _years. _Poor Daemon near screams down the Red Keep when Father refuses to let him go to, even if _Daemon _is the Prince of Dragonstone and Daenys won't be its proper princess until she marries him. Daemon isn't seven yet, and Father's word is law.

Even though Daenys' heart aches at leaving even Daemon behind, she _has _to. This might be the only chance she gets.

Uncle Viserys is a dragonrider, but he and Daenys still have to sail to Dragonstone on a normal boat. Cloud is one of only four dragons left in all the world. He's safest on the isle, with the Dragonmont to keep him warm and safe.

Upon making it to Dragonstone Daenys has to smile prettily through a name day feast held in her honor, though all she wants to do is see the dragons. At least she gets to sit near Aunt Baela, who is the only woman she knows to wear her scars as proudly as any knight. Daenys considers her a proper dragonslayer, the last one in the world. Poor Silverwing got _poisoned _by smallfolk of tired of her living around their lands. It's a pity Moondancer didn't survive the fight against Sunfyre. She would be the biggest and most elegant dragon in the world, what with Sheepstealer having flown off to the ends of the world and the Cannibal having died deep in his den, too old and big for any to get out.

Aunt Rhaena still has her Morning, of course, but Daenys' heart sinks when she realizes her aunt isn't up for taking her on her name day ride. She scarce picks at her food all supper and retires early. One of Daenys' Velaryon whispers darkly that it's the babe, because Garmund Hightower would _still _like a son even though they have so many daughters already.

By the time they finish supper it's too dark to go up the Dragonmont. Daenys gets squirreled away with some of her older cousins that night. She gets very little sleep, because her cousins insist on admiring her own dragon egg, turning it over and over again in their hands. Its shell is like molten bronze and shimmers every shade of gold in the firelight. Uncle Viserys claims it was laid by Vhagar herself. Daenys hopes it so, just as she hopes she'll grow up just as fear as Visenya herself, to ride a dragon like the queen's own.

Daenys tries hard to dream that night, but one stupid girl won't stop snoring, and her bedmate keeps drooling on Daenys' side of the bed. The morning after, she rolls out of bed grouchy and only half-remembered snatches of nightmares, flashes of silver and gold, red sand and red wings. Too bad Daenys can't tell if they're just nerves or _the other sort _of dream. The kind her namesake used to save their family and their dragons.

Aunt Rhaena is unfortunately too ill for the journey, but Uncle Viserys rides up with her. Daenys listens, wide-eyed, to his recollections of where the great dragons of old once roosted, too high up on the volcano for all but the bravest climbers to reach. The four dragons left don't live up there. It would be too hard to reach them, to feed and guard them.

"May we see the hatchlings first, nuncle?" Daenys begs, unable to hold back her eagerness. There's no way she'd be able to admire them once she sees how big dragons can get. All the Red Keep has is their skulls, stored away because Father shivers at the sight of them.

Uncle Viserys studies her. "We may, little dragon, but keep in mind they are... like newborn pups to the mighty hound. They have much growing left in them."

"I shall, nuncle."

Morning has laid a lot of eggs, but only two so far have hatched. All of them are Cloud's, for he is the last in the world that can sire them.

Daenys is a diligent student, because one day she'll be queen. It takes every ounce of her control to not pout when she beholds the future of the dragons, those she and her siblings and cousins may end up riding. If they'll ever be big enough to ride at all.

While their parents are chained further up on the mount, their babies are much too small for all that metal. The mouth of their cave is securely barred in iron so that they might move around all they want too inside. When their Dragonguard start tearing strips of smoke meat for them both are quick to slam against the bars, scratching and snarling at each other in their dash for food.

Neither is taller than Daenys' shins. Their heads are odd and squashed; not like the elongated snouts of the skull in the Red Keep, but like the blunt, ugly noses of the little dogs in court some ladies treat better than their own children. One is off-white, like lace left to yellow too long. The other is green; not a vivid shade like emerald or the deep woods, but like baby vomit.

"What are their names, nuncle?" she asks politely.

"The pale one is Melanion, and the darker Vhagerion."

"Those are so... grand." And wasted on hatchlings so small. Daenys hopes they'll at least grow into their proper snouts. If they ever will.

Uncle Viserys chuckles. "So they are. Our family has always preferred those names best grown into."

Morning is the largest dragon alive, but all Daenys gets to see of her is the last bit of flames that make it to the mouth of the cave higher up on the Dragonmont. They are the rosy pinks and red of dawn, sparks petering out against the armor of the Dragonguard that rush to keep her calm. Daenys cranes her head, to at least catch a glimpse of her aunt's dragon. She starts when her uncle's hand clamps firmly down on her shoulder.

"Please, uncle," she tries, needling in the way that can sway even her father sometimes. "Might we go a little bit closer?"

Uncle Viserys is, unfortunately, made up of sterner stuff than Father or his own sons, who always fall over themselves to give Daenys what she wants. "No further, Daenys. Dragons are attune to the minds of their masters. When your aunt is out of sorts, Morning is even more so. We best give her space today."

Daenys scowls. Morning is said to be lovely as the daybreak, her scales lustrous pink and her crest black as the last moments of night. The illustrations can't do her justice. Certainly her ugly offspring don't!

"Because it is your name day, little niece, I shall pretend I did not see that," Uncle Viserys says sharply.

The scowl slides off her face. She won't be banished back to bed without supper on her own name day, for her nuncle never means a threat he won't follow up on.

Daenys frowns at the far ride between Morning's den and Cloud's, for she has always heard they used to be housed in the same cave, and then next to each other as they grew larger. But she has poked enough dragons today and so keeps that question to herself.

Cloud at least looks a proper dragon. He is napping when they arrive, but soon stirs. Rheumy blue eyes open, ignoring Daenys entirely. For him Uncle Viserys smiles like Daenys has never seen smile for her cousins. His scales are white as snow, white as the clouds above the bay.

Daenys tries very hard to swallow her disappointment when Cloud rises to his full height, and proves not much taller than her uncle.

"He's beautiful," she breathes, for that is very much not a lie.

"He is, isn't he?" Uncle Viserys muses with a wan smile. "He is, isn't he? His egg was brother to your father's. Syrax laid them both in the same clutch. Seasmoke was believed to be their sire." He hesitates, violet eyes flicking between Daenys and his dragon. "You may stroke him, if you'd like."

Daenys does. His scales aren't smooth like those on her egg, but large and hot as a hearth. She grins even as stupid tears pool in her eyes. "He's too small for you to take me with you, isn't he?"

Uncle Viserys has the dignity to not speak down to her. "Yes, little dragon. I can scarce trust him with my own life, much less that of a child."

Dragons don't cry, so she sharpens her smile into a smirk. "No matter, nuncle. One day I'll ride my own."

As consolation prize Uncle Viserys takes her with him to where all the eggs are stored. Her new brother or sister will be here in a few months, and needs their own dragon for their cradle.

In the torchlight their shells sparkle like gemstones. Some are the spawn of Morning and Cloud. Daenys knows those with the ugly, muddied colors must be theirs. Her eyes flick over eggs black as obsidian and those bronze like her own. One rivets her gaze. Most of it shimmers silver, but for the solid streak that burns bright as gold.

"That one," she commands. Before a guard can snatch her, she takes the egg into her arms, cradling it as she has her baby brothers. "He needs this one."

Uncle Viserys stares at her long and hard. Daenys stares right back.

They sail home with two eggs, her bronze and her sibling's silver-gold.

Baby Laenor is born with a head of silver-gold fuzz. His is a shiny white, like moonlight or platinum. Daenys laughs at the patch that's bright as gold, at how befuddled her parents are when his perfect little head matches his egg down to the streak. Even as he grows and his eyes change from deep blue to pale lilac, his hair never fades into the same boring color as Daenys', but retains its vibrant streak.

Within three years people say the dragons are all dead. When poor Aunt Rhaena bleeds out what would have been her son, Morning strangles herself against her chains as she strains for freedom. The winter that comes early the next year is cold and bitter. Cloud, whose flame has always burned so low, is extinguished by it. Uncle Viserys grows even more bitter with his death, more like Father than himself.

Melanion and Vhagerion despise each other. They are only the size of big dogs when Vhagerion tears out the throat of her brother-mate and his misshapen skull joins the Red Keep's collection. She lays five eggs, cold and hard as stone, and dies not long after. Used up like Morning and Rhaena were, Daenys thinks bitterly.

Still, the dragons aren't dead. Many more slumber in their shells. They'll awake one day. Within her lifetime.

Daenys knows this to be true. She knows her destiny like she knows that of her dragon, of Daemon and his. She need only gaze down at the Painted Table and all the Conqueror intended to belong to his and his sister-wives. Theirs is a dream still unfulfilled, for on all other maps Dorne still flaunts borders of sunset where all other realms fall beneath the dragon's colors.

Her inheritance is folly, those of kings and queens who bled thousands against the Dornish and then their own dragons as they turned upon themselves. They have made their mistakes for their descendants to learn from, to rise above.

What Daenys dreams, she will forge into reality, with fire and blood.

**Author's Note:**

> The dragons die in 153. The last two are known to be small, stunted things. Given that Morning was at least hatched healthy and Viserys had an egg at the end, here is how the rapid down slide into the death of dragons could have playedo out.
> 
> Targaryen Family Tree (as of 153)
> 
> King Aegon III Targaryen (120 - ) (m. Daenaera Velaryon) (127 - )  
\--Daenys Targaryen (143 - ) (b. Daemon Targaryen) (145 - )  
\--Baela Targaryen (144 - )  
\--Daemon Targaryen (145 - ) (b. Daenys Targaryen) (143 - )  
\--Rhaenon Targaryen (147 - )  
\--Laenor Targarye (150 - )
> 
> Viserys Targaryen (122 - ) (m. Larra Rogare) (115 - 145)  
\--Aegon Targaryen (135 - ) (m. Naerys Targaryen) (138 - )  
\--Aemon Targaryen (136 - )  
\--Naerys Targaryen (138 - ) (m. Aegon Targaryen) (135 - )  
\----Daemon Targaryen (153 - )


End file.
